


As We Lay in the Garden, Tell Me of the Stars

by shouldbeover



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), philosophical musings, very minor angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: Sex and conversation in the conservatory of the cottage on the South Downs. Pretty much what the title says.





	As We Lay in the Garden, Tell Me of the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This started smutty, went philosophical on me, and then soft. Very, very soft.

In a garden, Crowley’s garden.

Aziraphale looks up at the stars, visible above the conservatory skylights, canopy of leaves rustling around them. He thinks about the ones Crowley created. In the time before.

Crowley’s writhing between his thighs, eyes shut, face furrowed in concentration, hips moving like they float free of his spine, a snake’s flexibility. Aziraphale reaches up to push back a damp lock of hair, and whispers, “Oh, my dearest, you feel so good.” 

Aziraphale’s already come twice: once from Crowley’s hand, those glorious, long fingers, stroking him through it, whispering sweet nonsense into his ear; and once from his tongue, prehensile, flicking, wrapping around him.

This is for Crowley.

Aziraphale likes it like this. When Crowley takes him just as he’s coming down from his own orgasm, hyper-sensitive, so the first few thrusts feel like they’re stretching out his own climax. There’s mild arousal, but it’s distant, a pleasant pressure, not an urgent need.

He can watch Crowley’s ecstasy written across that sweet, sharp-boned, beloved face, without worrying about seeking his own.

Funny how pleasure, written on the face, looks so much like pain. The first time he saw it, in the Garden, Adam and Eve, twining together, he worried he should intervene. Were they fighting? Hurting each other? But fortunately, he held back—not like the flaming sword—and watched as they parted, faces flushed and smiling, pulling each other close. After that, he made sure not to watch. Joyous closeness, physical bliss, expression of love—looking and sounding like the hardest battle. Like that perfectly ridiculous statue of Crowley’s that’s hidden in the far corner of the garden. Part of her ineffable sense of humor, he supposes.

But he loves watching Crowley’s pleasure. His face is always so expressive, eyebrows cocked, lips smirking, smiling, even sneering. But this, Crowley has no control over this. He is consumed with his own need, chasing that moment of perfect release. He bites his lip, groans, holds the breath he doesn’t need, exhales all at once, little oh, oh, unhs, rougher, erratic, short, desperate thrusts. Sometimes he’ll pull Aziraphale’s legs up to his shoulders to make the sheath tighter. Aziraphale is surprisingly flexible for all his pudginess. Nothing on Crowley, of course, but still able to be folded, manipulated, moved about to fit perfectly to Crowley. That’s true in everything these days. And Crowley, he realizes, belatedly, has always folded himself around Aziraphale. Crowley’s so close. Aziraphale can feel him swell, stiffen even more. He clenches his muscles to help Crowley along, runs a nail down Crowley’s spine, and Crowley comes with a gasp, goes rigid while he pulses, deep inside. Crowley collapses into Aziraphale’s arms, and pants.

Aziraphale strokes his back, soothing, until his breath and heartbeat slow down. “I’ve got you, my darling, so, so good.”

Sometimes Crowley prickles at the word, even now, but he’s getting better. He never resists it when they’re like this.

“S’good?” he slurs against Aziraphale’s neck.

“Perfect, dear heart.”

A few minutes pass. Crowley’s soft prick slips wetly from Aziraphale’s body.

“Darling,” Aziraphale whispers, “are you snoring?”

“No,” Crowley mumbles. He may still be asleep. He can hold conversations in his sleep and not remember them the next day. It’s disconcerting.

“I love you, my dear, but the flagstones are doing nothing for my back.”

“Ngk,” says Crowley. But he snaps his fingers and they are suddenly clean, dry, dressed in their pajamas and tucked into bed. He’s able to do that in his sleep as well, which is downright disturbing, but Aziraphale doesn’t care about that now.

Aziraphale stretches as much as he can with a lanky demon wrapped around him, to ease the kink out of shoulders and spine. Crowley missed fixing that, but he can only be expected to do so much while unconscious, after all.

The conservatory isn’t really the best place to become amorous, but it’s so beautiful there, so much like THE Garden. Aziraphale is well aware that Crowley’s gardening is about much more than simply liking plants. They’ll lay on their backs, hand in hand, to gaze upwards together.

Aziraphale asks about the stars.

“Which ones did you make, my dearest?”

And Crowley will point them out, one by one, describe their making. “That bright one is actually two stars orbiting each other. Gabriel wanted to do that one, but she liked my design proposal better. He was SOOO pissed off.”

“You remember that?”

“That Gabriel has always been a prat? Yeah, I’ll always remember that.” Crowley remembers Gabriel sending Aziraphale, _his_ angel, into a tower of Hell fire with a smirk on his face.

“Yes, but building them, being…one of the—”

“Don’t say it!” Softer, “Please don’t say it.”

Crowley never sought promotion in Heaven, and frankly never wanted it in Hell. There are so many things he can’t remember—burned out by the fall. His own name, for example. His rank among the angels. He wonders why he is still allowed the memory of crafting the stars. It seems…cruel, somehow. A reminder of what he lost. Demons don’t get to create; they only destroy. To remember when he held the elements in his hands like a painter’s palette, planned the perfect geometries, the music of the spheres, painted the sky with stars, wore them on his skin, glowed brighter than…well, as bright as the Morningstar, and that was the problem, wasn’t it. The Morningstar and his pride. “Why are we making these things for the silly mortals you are creating?” Why do we hang them as though they are billions of years old as a joke?” And ultimately, “Why do we worship you? What is your damage, anyway?”

Crowley had never asked those last ones, but he’d been part of Lucifer’s set of friends, and that was all it took. A wave of her hand, condemnation, war, falling. Cut off from all the hosts and their songs. Cut off from her.

Sometimes he isn’t up to answering Aziraphale’s questions. “I don’t want to talk about it, Angel. It was a long time ago. I’ve forgotten.” I’ve forgotten how.

Aziraphale never pushes, just pulls him closer in his arms and kisses him. Asks silly questions about astrology and star charts, or sensible questions about distance and composition—why is that one so blue?—and distracts him into discussions of humans, their foolishness and wisdom. They’ll argue, teasingly, about which side did what. Galileo? Newton? Einstein? Hawking? The telescope. The electron microscope. Steve Jobs? Bill Gates? Open source?

“Jobs? Oh, yeah, he went down. Been trying to upgrade Hell’s computers ever since. Worst punishment we could come up with.”

“Well, I happen to know that Hawking is in Heaven, happily walking and talking.” Aziraphale will reply.

“Funny, since he didn’t believe in her.”

“He believed in the beauty of creation, and wanted to share it, my Dear. That was enough.”

“She’s getting soft in her old age.”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale muses to himself, perhaps she has. She allows me to lie here with a demon in my arms. The world went on because the child of Satan, he who was the Morningstar, wanted it to. Her ineffable plan.

At some point, after a bottle (or three) of wine has been drunk, one of them will roll over onto the other, usually Crowley, and whisper something utterly unbecoming of a demon like, “Do you know the most beautiful of all her creations?”

And Aziraphale will blush, knowing that Crowley is about to say, “You.”

Or Aziraphale will turn to his side and say, “Her true plan has always been love, you know.”

That will lead to kisses, and more kisses, and often, despite the uncomfortableness of the floor, or the heat of the greenhouse, to undressing, the slow, mortal way.

As Aziraphale snuggles into the soft bed, his beloved still wrapped around him, he thinks that a slightly kinked neck, or a bruise on his tailbone, is worth it to make love to Crowley in the garden. 


End file.
